Tomorrow's Vengeance (23 page)

Halfway up the staircase Richard stumbled and fell to his knees. His head lolled. Suddenly, he threw his head back and yelled, ‘Christie!'

‘Don't you Christie me, buster. Go away and leave me alone.'

With a burst of energy only a professional drunk could muster, Richard lurched up the stairs. When he reached the top, he leaned against the railing, swaying dangerously, gathering strength for whatever was next on his alcohol-fueled agenda.

The man was a danger to himself and others, I thought. I waved, caught the attention of the receptionist and pantomimed dialing the phone. She gave me a thumbs up. It had already been done.

I had started up the stairs to see if I could help when Christie breezed past coming down, nearly knocking me over. ‘Sorry.' She flushed. ‘I think we need to call security.'

‘The receptionist just did.'

Upstairs, Richard leaned over the balcony rail, calling down. ‘Christie, come back. I love you!'

‘This is so embarrassing,' Christie said. ‘I can't
believe
I've been so stupid. Everyone must be talking about me behind my back.'

‘No, they aren't,' I reassured her, although everyone was, of course.

As we stood together, watching and waiting for security to show up, Richard eased one leg over the railing. ‘If you don't come back to me, I'm going to jump! I swear I will.'

I stepped forward, but Christie grabbed my arm and pulled me back. ‘He's so full of shit! You can't believe a word he says.'

‘But what if he does?' I hissed.

Richard was straddling the rail now. ‘I mean it!'

Christie pulled herself up to her full five-foot-seven and screamed, ‘Go ahead and jump, then. See if I care!'

‘No, don't!' I shouted back.

A khaki uniform swam into my peripheral view. The cavalry had arrived. ‘Sir, what seems to be the problem here?' the security guard boomed, and started to climb the stairs.

Richard's voice was calm, conversational. ‘I'm going to jump.'

‘I can see that, sir, but how will that solve anything?'

Richard didn't answer, but remained where he was, teetering drunkenly on the railing.

‘He's bluffing,' Christie said.

‘Shut up, Christie!' I struck the stupid woman sharply on the back.

‘I'm going to jump and it'll be your fault.' Richard slumped, suddenly drained of bravado. ‘You think I'm worthless? That's how much you know, you heartless bitch. Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars, that's what. That's what you're giving up by not marrying me.'

‘What's he talking about, Hannah?' Christie demanded.

‘I'm not sure, but if he's still active duty, it could be the military death benefit, or a life insurance policy.'

‘Going, going …' Richard began.

Possibly sensing that this boozehound was deadly serious, the guard sprinted up the staircase but before he could get anywhere near him Richard yelled, ‘Gone!' and launched himself into space, his arms spread like a bird. He hit the rim of the aquarium with a hideous
clonk
and tumbled, head first –
sploosh
– into the fish tank.

The only creature that didn't seem surprised was Scooter, the cownose ray. Richard sank slowly to the bottom where his body draped itself lifelessly over the coral head. Scooter dived, nudged him curiously, shimmied over this strange new creature, then moved on.

There were several seconds of silence, and then the shouting began.

‘Somebody get him out of there!'

‘He could still be alive!'

‘Get a ladder!'

‘Back, back everyone!'

The security guard streaked past me, shouting, ‘I'm on it!'

And somebody pulled the fire alarm.

As the alarm
whoop-whoop-whooped
deafenly around us, Christie buried her head in my shoulder and sobbed, ‘I didn't … he wouldn't … how could?'

I held her close, rubbing her back while the receptionist and one of the security guards ushered the residents who had been sitting in the lobby into the dining room.

I stayed put, conforting Christie.

Ten minutes later the paramedics arrived to discover the security guard standing on a ladder usually used for changing light bulbs, straining to reach Richard's body with a life hook hastily borrowed from the swimming pool. His skin glistened with sweat; his uniform shirt was soaked with saltwater.

‘Come down off the ladder, man. Nothing you can do for the guy now.'

That I even heard the paramedic's remark was a miracle of selective hearing as Christie had crumpled to the floor and was keening like a professional mourner at a Chinese funeral.

Angie burst in about then. After a hasty consultation she dragged her mother-in-law away to the health center where (I learned later) she'd been given an injection to help her sleep and put to bed.

The job of retrieving Richard's body was beyond the expertise of the paramedics, who called for the Underwater Recovery Team that the state of Maryland kept handy. When the URT barged into the lobby about ten minutes later, the guy in the lead screeched to a halt and sputtered, ‘How did he …' turning what was almost certainly a snigger into a cough. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,' exclaimed his partner, and made the sign of the cross.

‘Gives new meaning to swimming with the fishes.' It was the colonel, coming up behind me. ‘She-it. Go out to the movies for the first time in ages and miss all the excitement.' He elbowed my arm to get my attention, then winked. ‘First date.'

Thinking this was hardly the time to discuss the colonel's love life, I ignored him.

The divers got to work. They set up a portable air compressor and donned their masks while the colonel observed, offering a running commentary worthy of an announcer on the Discovery Channel. I tuned him out.

One diver slipped into the tank, sleek as a shark. He eased Richard's body into a sling that fit under his arms and guided the operation by holding on to Richard's legs while his partner hauled on the rope attached to the sling.

‘Not from around here, then?' said the colonel when the body was laid out on the marble floor. He stood on tiptoes in his black leather boots, craning his neck for a closer look.

‘No, he's not. He came to visit Christie McSpadden. Sort of a pen pal,' I added, not wanting to embarrass Christie any further. ‘He was in the army serving in Afghanistan.'

‘A jumper?'

I knew he didn't mean parachuter. ‘Apparently.'

‘She-it.'

‘PTSD would be my guess,' I said.

The colonel's back stiffened. ‘Bullshit. Bunch of slackers. In my day …'

I thought I would have to wait to find out how it was back in his day, but after a brief pause, presumably to collect his thoughts, the colonel launched into a rant. ‘I know people who can get you one hundred percent disability benefits, easy as that.' He snapped his fingers. ‘Tell 'em where to go and what to say when they get there. It's a scam. You got a half million vets out there right now claiming PTSD. Makes me sick. There are vets with
real
issues, you know. Paraplegics, amputees, traumatic brain injury. Jeesh. And here you go,' he indicated the body bag that contained what was left of Richard, now lying on a gurney. ‘This guy never looked like boots on the ground to me. Probably one of those sissies stationed at a home base somewhere, shot themselves in the foot at the motor pool. Or they're all hands over their heads in the mess hall shouting, ‘Incoming, incoming!' Bull
shit
! I held my best buddy in my arms, saw his eyes roll back, the life leak out of him.' He paused to take a deep breath, then shook himself almost like a dog and said, ‘Sorry, I don't usually go on like that. Must be off my meds.'

I turned, reached out and hugged the man. I couldn't help it. My father had served with distinction in Vietnam and he knew, first hand, what real war was all about. Maybe if I hugged this guy it would help him stow his demons back in the box. Beneath my arms, I felt him tremble.

‘Colonel,' I said after a bit.

‘Yeah?'

‘You can let go of me now.'

He sprang away like a teenager who'd been caught in a clinch. ‘Sorry.'

I managed a smile. ‘No need. It's quite all right. I'm a military brat, so I know where you're coming from.'

He poked my shoulder with his index finger and channeled his best John Wayne. ‘I knew there was something about you that I liked, Little Lady.'

The Easy Rider had returned.

‘But you're wrong about Richard Kent,' I told him gently. ‘He was a medic in Afghanistan. Watched
his
friend die.'

‘Sorry,' he said, his face clouding over as his head bent low. ‘I didn't know.'

‘Not many people did,' I said.

I caught up with Angie in her mother-in-law's apartment, where Christie was sleeping soundly. Angie closed the door between the living room and the bedroom and invited me to sit down.

‘So, what happened to the lovebirds?' I asked. ‘Did she tell you?'

‘By the third ATM, she figured it out. The money was supposedly so they could elope to Las Vegas.'

‘At the Graceland Wedding Chapel, I presume, married by an Elvis impersonator to her hunka-hunka burning love.'

Angie laughed. ‘Something like that.'

I melted back into the upholstery, suddenly exhausted. ‘That's certainly what I'll want for
my
second wedding.'

‘When she turned him down, Richard explained that he was the beneficiary of a trust fund from his grandfather but the money only came to him when he married.'

‘So he picked your mother-in-law.' I sat up straight in the chair. ‘Not to cast aspersions on Christie, my dear, but he had flowers, candy and charm going for him. And I'll give him at least a seven in the looks department. Couldn't he find somebody a
teeny
bit younger?'

Angie's look said
get real
. ‘I think the younger girls were smart enough to figure out that Richard didn't exactly play for their team, if you know what I mean. He probably flunked the tryouts.'

‘Ah, I missed that, Angie. My gay-dar must be on the fritz.'

‘I missed it, too, but Christie didn't. Richard must have figured he wouldn't have to sleep with someone as old as my mother-in-law, so when she came on to him he turned her down.' Even in the dim light, I could see her roll her eyes. ‘Poor Christie. She wanted a
real
relationship, with sex in it and everything. Go figure.'

‘Don't we all?'

‘And I don't think she believed him about the trust fund, although I certainly do. Why else would he want to marry my mother-in-law?'

‘Do you think he was really a medic, fighting with the army in Afghanistan, Angie?'

‘That part, at least, is true. Christie said it screwed him up, big time.'

I thought about the ball cap. ‘How long had Richard been hanging around, before he showed up here, I mean?'

Angie shut her eyes, considering my question. ‘He arrived about two weeks ago, I think. Christie said she met him for the first time at Grump's for a hamburger.' She grunted. ‘At least she was smart enough to pick a public place.'

‘So, that was
before
Masud was killed.'

Angie's face paled. ‘Ohmygawd! Richard just hates, uh, hated Muslims. He called Mohammad a seventh-century Charlie Manson.'

‘What a smooth talker,' I said.

A guy with PTSD and a hatred of Muslims. A guy who had almost certainly spray painted anti-Muslim slogans on the wall of the
musalla
, if the balaclava in the trunk of his car was anything to go by. A guy who had tussled with Masud. I asked the obvious question: ‘Do you think Richard might have murdered Masud Abaza, Angie?'

Her gaze didn't waver. ‘Words of wisdom from Richard Kent: “Give a Muslim a rock and they'll throw it at an embassy.”'

‘Research … is expensive. For objects with no prior indication of Nazi looting, the costs range anywhere from $40 to $60 per hour, and the time needed to document just one object can vary enormously, from a week to a year, and if initial research suggests an object has a history that may include unlawful appropriation by the Nazis, time and expense can double or triple. One museum spent $20,000 plus travel and expenses over the course of 2 years to have a researcher resolve the history of just three paintings.'

Edward H. Able, Jr, Review of the Repatriation of Holocaust

Art Assets in the United States, Hearing Before the

Subcommittee on Domestic and International Monetary

Policy, Trade, and Technology of the Committee on Financial

Services, U.S. House of Representatives, July 27, 2006.

‘I
've thought of something, Hannah.'

I shifted the cell phone to my left ear and stared at the numerals on the bedside clock: 23:45. I'd been asleep for only an hour.

‘What is it, Izzy?' Little men with hammers were pounding nails into my head.

‘I was going over the packet of materials your brother-in-law prepared for me, and I saw something that I hadn't noticed before.'

‘Ummm.' I staggered out of bed, flipped on the bathroom light and rummaged through the medicine cabinet, looking for aspirin.

‘It's the original bill of sale, the one the Nazis made my father sign.'

‘Uh huh,' I mumbled, attempting to twist the cap off the aspirin jar without dropping the phone in the toilet.

‘It's a forgery.'

I dropped the bottle, spilling the aspirin into the sink.
Damn
. I was wide awake now.

I sat down on the toilet seat, cradling my aching head in my hands. ‘A forgery? Are you sure? At the meeting with Hutch you said it looked like your father's signature.'

‘That's not important. What's important is that my father didn't sign it, he
couldn't
have signed it. The bill of sale is dated September 18, 1943. I don't know what made me do it, but I checked the universal calendar, Hannah. September 18 is a Saturday.
Shabbat
. Not even for the Nazis would my father work on
Shabbat
.'